Deep Cover (19 page)

‘Fingerprints!' Yewdall said in a hushed but excited tone.

‘Yes, which is what I meant when I said that I took a leaf from Frankie's book.' He smiled at Brunnie. ‘You put me on the right track there, Frankie. Well . . .' he tapped sheets of computer printout which lay on his desk. ‘The upshot is that all are known to us. Felicity Skidmore has two priors for possession of cannabis . . . small fines . . . but her prints are on file. The other woman . . . I thought she and Felicity Skidmore were a mother and daughter team . . . she is one Gail Bowling, though she told me her name was Gail Bowler. Now, she is one very interesting lady, a right madam by the look of her track. She's fifty-three years old, started when she was a teenager . . . shoplifting, receiving stolen goods . . . she worked the streets and has convictions for soliciting, then she stopped being a brass and started running them and got five years for living on immoral earnings, which always means she was the top Tom in a brothel – the old brass that runs the younger brasses. Then she did ten years for possession with intent to supply.'

‘Ten!'

‘Yes . . . so a large amount of illicit . . . in this case it was Charlie . . . a lot of white stuff is why she collected ten years, probably got out in five. So the governor of the import and export business got herself covered in cocaine once. That is significant because Frankie came back from Sunninghill nick with the news that the Drug Squad are interested in Curtis Yates. So I will contact the Drug Squad and let them know of our interest. It might become a joint investigation, but I will insist on having operational command. It's a murder enquiry, possible multiple murders, which takes priority over drug smuggling.'

‘Do we know how long Gail Bowling has been associated with Curtis Yates, boss?' Ainsclough asked.

‘No. Why do you ask?'

‘Because when I visited Mr O'Shea yesterday he mentioned that his wife Tessie had seemed frightened of her employer, or employers, and had made a comment about “she” being worse than “him” or something similar.'

‘So, a female accomplice?'

‘Yes, sir, possibly, unless the “she” in question is or was no more than an overbearing housekeeper, but I think we need to find out who “she” was . . . or is.'

‘Yes.' Vicary sat back in his chair. ‘That's a task. The two men at the yard . . . one was Rusher, Oliver “Rusher” Boyd, plenty of track for violence – a tall, hard, lean individual. The other was younger, rejoices in the street name of “Mongoose Charlie”, Charles McCusker being his real name, twenty-eight years, track for burglary and then he moved up to the league and did time for manslaughter. Sentenced to a five stretch, but probably joined the Christian Union and was drinking IPA again within two years.' He paused. ‘So how do we proceed? Curtis Yates is the target but he is well under cover. Seems he's been getting away with too much for too long. People are murdered . . . cocaine is possibly imported . . . he is probably exporting ecstasy pills, as well, but between us and the Drug Squad we should be able to put a solid case together. Make sure he swaps that large house in Virginia Water for a shared cell in Wandsworth or the Scrubs. His victims deserve justice but Yates doesn't seem to get his paws dirty.' Vicary glanced out of the window of his office as again the rain started to fall.

‘We need to find someone who will talk,' Swannell said. ‘We would offer witness protection, of course, but it will have to be someone well on the inside, or someone who can provide evidence to link Yates to a murder . . . or two.'

‘Or perhaps we could insert someone,' Yewdall suggested.

The room fell silent.

Yewdall shrugged. ‘Why not? A lassie is less likely to go undercover, and I come from Stoke-on-Trent – I have a genuine Potteries accent if I need to use it . . . I'm a proper “Stoker”,' she said, pronouncing ‘Stoke' as ‘Stowk'.

Swannell held eye contact with Vicary. ‘It could work, sir. Penny is not known to the staff at WLM Rents . . . she could walk in off the streets.'

Vicary turned to Yewdall. ‘You'll be in real danger.'

‘I know, sir.'

‘This will certainly help your career if you do this, but do not let that be your motivation.'

‘I know that, sir, and I won't.'

‘He'll likely try and make you work King's Cross.'

‘I won't agree to that. He'll need to use me as a gofer, if he wants one, which will be more useful to us anyway, I would have thought – carrying parcels from address to address, we could put his network together very well.'

‘OK. This will take a week or two to prepare. I'll set the ball rolling. We'll get you into deep cover. But only if you are sure . . .'

‘I'm sure.' Yewdall smiled. ‘Very, very sure. I want the king of Kilburn to take a great fall.'

‘Good.' Vicary smiled approvingly. ‘Meanwhile, let's bring in Clive “The Pox” Sherwin. He sounds a lot softer than “Rusher” Boyd. See what he can tell us.'

‘You either like it or you don't,' the ill-shaven man said. ‘The thrill is the motivation – it is for me anyway.' He rolled a cigarette, taking the tobacco from a plastic pouch.

‘You've been doing this a long time?' Yewdall asked, shivering in a yellow blouse, denim jacket and an old pair of jeans with holes in both knees. She wore an old pair of sports shoes and thin ankle socks.

‘Yeah . . .' he rolled the cigarette painfully thinly, as if it was more paper than tobacco. ‘You cold?'

‘Yes, but I was advised to get used to it.'

‘That's good advice. If you show too much sensitivity to the cold you won't come across as authentic. Do you smoke?'

‘No.'

‘Well start. Smoke roll-ups like this.' He held up his cigarette.

‘I know what roll-ups are.'

‘No, I mean roll them like this, as thin as thin can be, that means you've been on the inside. Only a con who is used to trying to make his weekly one ounce ration of weed last a week will roll them as thin as this. It's a good habit to get into. If you are not in the habit, I mean well in, you'll forget yourself and roll a thick one, and your cover is blown.'

‘Understood.'

‘You'll need to stop washing, maybe just your face now and again, but not a full body wash and don't change your clothes too often.'

‘Alright.'

The man lit the cigarette with a blue disposable lighter. ‘I am going to be your contact, not your governor. Mr Vicary is it?'

‘Yes, Harry Vicary.'

‘Met him once, seems to know his stuff.'

‘I think he does.'

‘I'll give you a phone number which you must memorize and use the continental method.'

‘What's that?'

‘Break it down into two figure components. For some reason we Brits tend to remember numbers using the individual units, so we would remember a sequence as two, four, seven, eight, six, three, nine, for example.'

‘Yes, I would do that.'

‘Well, the continentals would remember that number as twenty-four, seventy-eight, sixty-three, nine. Use the continental method, it's easier.'

‘Yes, I will.'

‘It's a landline.'

‘OK.'

‘To an address above a travel agents in Finchley.'

‘Finchley?'

‘Yes.'

‘Bit posh.'

‘Yes . . . posh addresses are very useful, makes it easier to spot nasties hanging around sighting up the joint.'

‘Of course.'

‘But you won't be going there; the cover address is Lismore Photographic Studios. You can leave a message on the answering machine. We need a code name for you. Did you ever keep a pet?'

‘A cat once.'

‘What was her name?'

‘Spyder, with a “y”.'

‘Spyder with a “y”, that's a good name. It has a certain ring to it. I can remember that.' He drew on the thin cigarette. ‘So, you are from the five towns?'

‘Yes, Hanley.'

‘Your dad still lives there?'

‘No, he retired to the coast.'

‘Well, he's moved back.'

‘He has?'

‘Yes, he has. He never left in fact.' The man flicked the ash from his cigarette on to his jeans and rubbed it gently into the weave of the denim with his fingertips. ‘Get into habits like this, using your jeans as an ashtray.'

‘OK.' Penny Yewdall glanced around her. The lovingly landscaped grounds of Hither Green Crematorium seemed indeed a perfect place to meet her contact. They seemed to be the only two people in the grounds that were separated from the cemetery by a line of tall poplar trees. They sat on a bench close to the trees on a pathway which formed a U-shape adjoining the main driveway to the crematorium building. SE6 was a long way from Kilburn and a long way from the East End. She had travelled to central London on the suburban overground service, changing trains to ensure she was not being followed. ‘You won't be being followed anyway, not on this trip, but it's a good discipline to get into,' was the advice given by the unidentified voice on the phone.

‘That's undercover work,' the man who approached her in the grounds had said after they sat down. ‘You'll dress like this, you'll be smelly and you'll be uncomfortable, and you'll be looking over your shoulder all the time . . . and learn not to stare; only cops stare. You'll either like it or you won't.'

‘I see.'

‘It's all for authenticity. Your old man still lives where you grew up, 214 Rutland Street, Hanley, right in the middle of the five towns.'

‘Six.' Yewdall smiled. ‘There are six towns; Tunstall, Burslem, Hanley, Stoke, Fenton and Longton. It was Arnold Bennett who wrote a book called
Anna of the Five Towns
, which gave rise to the belief that there are five towns in the Potteries.'

‘But there's six?'

‘Yes.'

‘Good. Well, I have learned something, and that sort of thing will help your credibility. The address I gave you exists. You'll be going back to your roots.'

‘How did you find out? Why did you choose it?'

‘It chose us in a sense. It was up for sale, so we rented it from the outgoing owner for a few weeks. It wasn't selling so it gave him a bit of money. It is his late mother's house so no one is living there. We put some furnishings in . . . and your dad is a retired detective sergeant from the Staffordshire constabulary.'

‘You don't miss a trick.'

‘Can't afford to, Curtis Yates is no fool; he won't take you on as even a gofer unless you're fully vetted by his heavies, or his gofers, or his females. You left home some years ago and he won't have a good word to say about you. He'll say, “I don't know where the devil she is . . . broke her mother's heart leaving like that” . . .'

‘Wow.'

‘Do you have a photograph of yourself about five years old? I mean taken five years ago?'

‘I could dig one out.'

‘Do so, today. Post it to the Finchley address.'

‘The photo studios?'

‘Yes. Address it to the manager, and write “Penny” on the rear.'

‘I keep my name?'

‘Your Christian name, yes. What is your grandmother's name?'

‘Which one?'

‘Maternal.'

‘Smith.'

‘Paternal?'

‘Lawrence.'

‘OK, we'll use that, it's more obscure. Pleased to meet you, Penny Lawrence. We'll get a DSS signing card in that name. Tomorrow you go up to Staffordshire.'

‘I do?'

‘You do.'

‘Walk around the area of your “dad's” house, get to know Rutland Street, the bus routes that service it, the pubs, the schools, the shops.'

‘Understood.'

‘And polish up your Staffordshire accent. Spend two days up there . . . live rough . . . buy an old coat from a charity shop, leave all police ID and any jewellery behind in London – carry anything like that and it will be fatal . . . and I don't mean fatal . . . I mean . . .'

‘You mean fatal. I get the message.'

‘Return to the Smoke three days from now and start panhandling in Piccadilly.'

‘How will I contact you?'

‘I will give you some coins now and also some coins will be given to you by a passing stranger . . . he'll be a cop. It's to ensure you have enough money to make a phone call to the photographic studio. You can also write.'

‘Write?'

‘Why not? Just a postcard with a cryptic message sent to the photographic studio, but it is essential that you write the card and address it the instant before you post it.'

‘Yes.'

‘Carry around one or two pre-stamped postcards but don't pre-address them.'

‘Alright.'

‘It's another means of contacting us if all else fails . . . but we won't receive the card for twenty-four hours.'

‘I realize that.'

‘Forty-eight hours if you post it on Saturday.'

‘Got you.'

‘If you sense that you are in even the slightest danger then come in, find a phone box and dial three nines, or walk into a police station . . . or stop a police car or a foot patrol.'

‘Alright.'

‘Always remember just who it is that you are dealing with.' The man paused as a heavily laden goods train rumbled along the railway line that ran behind the crematorium. ‘These people don't need proof beyond a reasonable doubt to off you. All they need is the slightest whiff of suspicion. For them life is cheap anyway, unless it's their own, in which case they all start to scream about their rights.'